


It Takes One to Know Me

by thirtythreepaces



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mutual Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Slow Burn, cause boone is sad, no beta we die like idiots, nonbinary she/her courier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:06:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23782075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirtythreepaces/pseuds/thirtythreepaces
Summary: A courier walks the Mojave, always two steps ahead of the reaper, the black dog. She would give anything to forget what she's running from. When it finally gets its jaws around her throat, her wish is granted - but it's not all she'd hoped it would be.Meanwhile, Boone can't embrace death fast enough. Stuck in the past, desperately waiting for something, anything, to change, but unable to change himself.Fate crosses their paths. Two broken people going in opposite directions who meet in the middle to seek revenge. Instead, they find something else.If they can keep it is another matter entirely.
Relationships: Craig Boone/Courier (Fallout), Craig Boone/Female Courier
Comments: 24
Kudos: 42





	1. Bury Me Face Down

_It takes one to know me_

_I guess you're the one._

_-Johnny Cash_

* * *

_When I go into the ground_

_I won't go quietly, I'm bringin' my crown_

_When I go into the ground_

_Oh, they gotta bury me, bury me face down_

_-grandson_

The courier was tired. A layer of Mojave dust had settled onto her skin, her clothes, her very being. Only disturbed every now and then by a bead of sweat or a sudden breeze. By now it was like a second skin.

It was the hottest time of day, the waves of heat reflecting off the asphalt in the distance playing tricks on her weary eyes. She knew better than to think it was anything other than the same road she’d been walking for weeks. The same road that was currently hot enough to feel through her boots. She needed to buy some new ones, but jobs had been few and far between outside of NCR territory. There was a lot riding on the poker chip in her satchel — enough for her to ignore the fact that this job had strange written all over it.

Work paid less back in California, now that the government was switching over to paper money. Sure, the roads were safer and people put more trust in mail carriers, but she couldn’t go back there. Too many memories haunting those roads. Passing through Mojave Outpost lifted a weight, however slight it may have been, from her shoulders. 

_“I can’t let you leave in good conscience without warning you that the NCR isn’t patrolling the roads past this point.”_

_“Good. Don’t need any more of you soldier boys stopping me every five fuckin’ feet.”_

She was headed North, up to New Vegas. One of the few places she’d never been visited before, though she’d heard it was just like New Reno with less crime and better hookers. She’d see it for herself soon enough.

The courier stopped for a moment to take a swig from her canteen, washing the taste of sand out of her mouth. She was a bit alarmed at how light it felt — she’d wanted to get out of the outpost so fast that she hadn’t bothered to buy any supplies, and there was some shit going down in Primm that she didn’t want to be a part of. Traveling in the Mojave, you were always one drink away from dying of dehydration.

There was a sign up ahead, too far away to read, so she twisted the cap back on and kept walking. Once she reached it, she squinted to make out the jagged lettering hastily spray-painted onto an old road marker.

 _GOODSPRINGS_ ↑

Her eyes followed the arrow and, lo and behold, there was a small settlement a few miles ahead, a bit off the beaten path. Small enough that she probably wouldn’t have bothered with it if she hadn’t seen the sign. A town that tiny wouldn’t have a motel, much to her dismay. It had been too long since she’d had a shower, and she wasn’t sleeping so good these days, especially when she was between jobs. Memories she’d prefer to forget haunted her the moment she closed her eyes, but long days on the road tired her out to the point where she could actually get some rest.

At least it would have a bar. Every town did. A drink and some shelter from the sun sounded pretty damn good, so she headed towards Goodsprings.

It only took her a few hours to reach it. It was small, alright; just a saloon and a general store surrounded by a handful of farmhouses. Reminded her of home.

She couldn’t get out fast enough.

The courier stepped onto the porch of the saloon, boots thumping on old wood. There was an old man resting in a chair with eyes that seemed to look through her. Locals in towns like these never trusted strangers, for good reason. She tipped her hat to him, and he nodded in return. Granting her permission.

The door creaked as she pushed it open, her eyes adjusting to the darkness of the interior. Sunlight streaming through half-closed blinds illuminated the dust that hung in the stale air, and the sound of Mojave Music Radio was drifting quietly through the room. It was still hot, but there was no sun beating down on your back. Good enough.

She headed towards the bar counter, taking her hat off when she saw the woman behind it. “Well, would you look at that. Someone with manners,” she smirked. 

“Don’t usually pride myself on it, but my momma raised me right, ma’am.” A ghost of a smile played on the courier’s face. 

The woman grabbed a glass and a bottle of liquor from behind her. “You feelin’ thirsty? Don’t get too many visitors ‘round here.” 

“Please. And I’d appreciate it if you could fill this up,” the courier nodded, placing her canteen on the counter. “I won’t be stayin’ long.” After pouring her a glass of whiskey and sliding it towards her, the woman moved to take the canteen, but paused. The courier raised an eyebrow. “There a problem?”

She looked at her, withdrawing her hand. “Don’t feel bad chargin’ unruly folks for water, but you seem nice enough. Theres a spring down the hill called Goodsprings Source. Water’s clean. You can fill this up over there for free.” 

The courier nodded. “That’s a good tip. I’ll head down there, then. Thanks.” She slid some caps towards her for the drink before taking a sip. It was terrible, but that was to be expected. It didn’t stop her from downing the glass. Once she was done, she stood back up and made for the door, placing her hat back on her head. “Be back in a few.” 

She took her time down at the source; there’d been some geckos to clear out. Once they were gone, the courier sat down to drink as much as she could before she left. Pure, non-irradiated water that didn't cost a fortune wasn't something to be taken for granted. The sun had started to set once she finally returned, a full canteen and a few extra bottles safely tucked away in her bag. When she made her way to the saloon a second time, the man out front was on alert, sitting up a bit straighter. 

_Like a guard dog._

She felt his eyes on her once again as she passed him and cautiously opened the door. This time, there were voices talking over the radio. 

“—on the house. C’mon, Trudy, baby. Don’t be a wet blanket.” 

“Maybe things are different in New Vegas, but here in Goodsprings we pay for our drinks,” the woman — Trudy, apparently — replied sternly. 

The courier stepped around the corner, finally getting a look at the men giving Trudy trouble. There were three of them — two who looked like Khans, and one high-roller type with slicked back hair and the tackiest suit she’d ever seen. All of them turned to look at her and immediately fell silent. The courier just stared back at them until one of the Khans, the taller of the two, elbowed the high-roller. That seemed to snap him out of whatever fixation he had on her, and he got back to trying to weasel his way out of paying. 

“I’m basically classin’ up your whole joint just by sittin’ in it. Don’t that count for somethin’?”

“Yeah, c’mon!” the shorter Khan chimed in. The courier walked past them, taking her hat off once again.

“You find the source alright, hon?” Trudy asked.

“Yes’m,” she nodded, taking a seat at the counter. “Thanks again.” She noticed with dismay that there was a hole in her hat. It’d need replacing, along with her boots. She could practically hear her caps pouch weeping.

“My pleasure. At least you’re a paying customer.” Trudy shot a glare at the group of men. 

“Aw, don’t be like that. I’m drownin’ here, Trudy.” 

The courier looked at them from across the room, locking eyes with the high-roller. “You’d best pay the lady, city boy. Cough up the caps, else you’ll be payin’ in blood.” 

He laughed, clearly not taking her seriously. Maybe he was right to — after all, they outnumbered her. He nudged his friends. “Yeah, right. Get a load of this Janey-come-lately who don’t have more than twenty caps to her name.” 

Her glare didn’t falter, and maybe the fading sunlight caught her eyes just right, because she saw the high roller swallow. A movement she might not have noticed if it wasn’t exactly what she was looking for, like a wild dog looks for weakness. 

“…Fine, I’ll do it for the bleedin’ heart over there. Even buy ‘em a drink. Happy?” He rolled his eyes before taking some caps out of his pocket and tossing them onto the counter. Trudy swept the caps into her hand, placing them in the cash register before pouring another drink into the courier’s glass. She winked, and the courier nodded ever so slightly. They were even.

Finally, one of the Khans spoke up. The taller one. “We still haven’t talked about which way we’ll take back.” 

“That conversation is nowhere. Like I already said: we go north. Dig?” the high-roller answered, obviously trying to brush him off.

“North? We just walked through hell, man. We’re not going back that way. We’re lucky to be alive,” the Khan shot back, jabbing a finger at him. 

“How the hell else are we supposed to get back, genius? East?” The courier started to tune out their argument. She was planning on heading north, too. Maybe she should ask Trudy if there was a different—

“Why don’t you ask the mailman, then?” 

She looked up from her drink. The shorter Khan was pointing at her, apparently fed up with his bosses’ bickering. Before she could ask how the hell he knew she was a courier, the high-roller stood up. “…Sure,” he shrugged before sauntering over, flashing a smug grin at her as he leaned against the counter. He gave the courier an obvious once-over, putting a hand on her back. “More of a mail-woman, if you ask me. What’s a pretty broad like you doin’ out in the middle of nowhere anyways?” 

This was a man who was used to women swooning if he so much as blinked at them. The courier glanced at his hand. She smiled coyly, fluttering her eyelashes a bit, before she suddenly grabbed him by the tie and yanked him down to her. Feet shuffled as his goons got to their feet and the high-roller tried to stay on his. They were close enough that she could smell his cologne, could see the surprise in his dark eyes. “Touch me again and you’ll lose a hand,” she growled, shoving him backwards. “If y’all know what’s good for you, you’ll leave me the fuck alone.” 

The high-roller stumbled a bit, but managed to stay on his feet. He dusted his suit off and ran a hand through his hair, clearly bent out of shape over her rebuff. “C’mon, boys. Let’s blow this joint,” he muttered, heading towards the door. On their way out, the shorter Khan elbowed the radio that was sitting on the counter. The music abruptly stopped as it crashed to the floor.

“Oops,” he said flatly before following his buddies.

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” Trudy grumbled, leaning over to pick up the radio. “Bunch of no-good freeloaders, the lot of them.” 

The courier blew a breath through her nose. “Wouldn’t shed a tear if they got eaten by Deathclaws.” 

“You can say that again.” 

By the time she’d finished her drink, the sun had completely set, taking most of the light outside with it. It was more dangerous to travel at night, but it gave good cover and was a hell of a lot cooler. “Headin’ out?” Trudy called. She was on the other side of the bar, fiddling with the radio. 

“That’s right.” The courier stood, putting her hat on and securing the bandana around her neck. She checked her pockets — everything was in its place. Could never be too careful when you were out on your own.

“Well, good luck out there. The way things are lookin’, you’re gonna need it,” Trudy smiled.

“Don’t believe in luck, but I appreciate it, ma’am.” The courier tipped her hat to her before leaving the saloon. The heat in the air was finally starting to fade along with the sun. She took a look around and noticed that the old man outside was gone. Must’ve already turned in for the night. She took a cigarette out of her pocket, lighting it and taking a drag as she looked up at the moon. It was full — good for visibility, bad for stealth. 

Then there was a crunch of sand under boots behind her. Just as she turned to see who it was, a shovel connected with her head with a loud _CLANG._

* * *

“You got what you were after, so pay up.”

The courier’s head throbbed as she swam back into consciousness. A cloth gag, cutting into her mouth, was the first thing she registered. After that it was the ropes cutting into her wrists and the dirt under her head. 

“You’re cryin’ in the rain, pally.” The voices were familiar — the men from before. She twisted her hands, trying to slip out of her bonds. Her mind felt sluggish as she tried to understand what was going on, but she didn’t have to think too hard to know that this was bad. Real bad.

“Guess who’s wakin’ up over here.” Before she knew what was happening, someone grabbed the back of her coat and pulled her to her knees. She looked up and was unsurprised to see the high-roller in the tacky suit. If she’d been able, she would’ve cursed him out.

“Time to cash out.” He dropped his cigarette, grinding it under a wing-tipped shoe before approaching her. 

“Would you get it over with?” the taller Khan urged impatiently. 

_Get it over with._ The courier looked to her left and saw the shallow, unmarked grave they’d dug. _Her_ grave. It was instantly clear what they had planned for her. 

Maybe it was for the best, after all she’d done.

The high-roller raised a hand to silence his lackey. “Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain’t a fink, dig?” 

_But I don’t want to die._

The realization was like a punch to the stomach. For a while now she’d been relying on primal instinct to survive. But that thought, that feeling — it was more than instinct. She had to get out of this. There had to be a way. She kept twisting her hands, desperation quickly overtaking her.

He reached into his suit jacket, pulling out the poker chip she was supposed to deliver. “You’ve made your last delivery, kid.”

All this for a damn poker chip? The courier wished she could speak, offer them caps, tell them they’d never see her again if they just let her go. _I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die—_

“Sorry you got twisted up in this scene.” The high-roller put the chip back in his pocket, and replaced it with a pistol. Not just any pistol — it was the most beautiful gun the courier had ever seen, silver engraved with a painted pearlescent grip, and—

 _Madre María._ Madre María was painted on the grip.

She didn’t know if she should laugh or weep, if it was a saving grace or a final condemnation. 

“From where you’re kneeling it must seem like an 18-karat run of bad luck.” He glanced at the Virgin before slowly aiming the gun at the courier’s head. There was no remorse in his dark eyes. He’d already justified this murder to his conscience.

 _No. No._ The courier didn’t accept it so easily. _I don’t want to die. Please._ She stared at the end of the barrel, unable to tear her eyes away.

“Truth is, the game was rigged from the start.” 

_I don’t want to—_

A flash and a deafening _BANG_ ended the courier’s thinking. Ended her feeling. Ended everything.

It’s impossible to describe nothingness. It is, it isn’t. Time passed, but there was no way to tell how much or how quickly.

She didn't dream.

The first thing the courier saw when she woke up was an old ceiling fan. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, i finally did the damn thing. huge thanks to everyone who encouraged me to write this, i wouldn't have done it without you guys. catch me as courier-sux on tumblr if you want to know more about my courier (who will be formally introduced in the next chapter) and as vegastars on spotify for the fic playlist. i'll be adding more tags as the story progresses.


	2. I've Been Dead All Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The courier gets a name.

_Well, I’ve been dead all day_

_Could you tell? Could you tell?_

_This is where I leave here and I save myself_

_If there’s a God in Hell, let us pray, let us pray_

_To be cleansed of everything that we’ve said_

_When I fall asleep, can this fade away?_

_-Bayside_

An old ceiling fan. She wasn’t sure how long she stared at the fan blades spinning around and around, futilely trying to fight the stale heat.

The courier felt empty. Hollow. She reached for something other than apathy and came up short.

Pain finally cut through the nothingness as it bloomed in her skull, throbbing through her head. She kept her eyes open despite the fact that it was surely making it worse.

_If I close my eyes, they might not open again._

The thought flashed through her head without any emotion. Just a gut feeling, something that you knew in your bones to be true.

The fan blades kept spinning.

_Where am I?_

A question, a spark of curiosity that prompted her to sit up. She immediately regretted her decision. The pain grew tenfold, so bad that she almost blacked out. Her hand reflexively flew to her forehead as her eyes squeezed shut. Once it had subsided, she realized that there was some kind of cloth under her fingertips. Bandages.

She opened her eyes again to look around. Old wooden floors, sunlight streaming through blinds, a gurney against the far wall. She was sitting on a cot, and her gaze was drawn to a flash of silver. There was a tray holding some tools: a scalpel, scissors, tweezers. A few more that she didn’t know the name of. Looked like a clinic, despite the fact that she was alone, and she came to the conclusion that she'd been injured.

The courier swung her legs over the edge of the cot and shakily got to her feet. It was then that she noticed that she was naked other than a pair of shorts. She stared blankly at her bare chest for a moment.

_Who am I?_

There was a bit of alarm associated with that question. Even in the state she was in, she could understand that it wasn’t one you asked lightly. But there was no familiarity looking at the scars and birthmarks on her stomach. She wasn’t even really sure if she was a she, a he, a they, or something else entirely. There was just the dull, basic knowledge that yes, this was _her_ body.

She grabbed the scalpel from the tray without thinking about it, gripping it in a shaky hand before slowly taking a few steps. One, two, three. Like a child learning how to walk. A mote of frustration crossed her features, and she picked up the pace, causing her to stumble a bit before she caught her balance.

Something prevented her from calling out as she peered into the hallway. Staying hidden seemed to come naturally to her. She scanned the books on a shelf as she passed by; the letters seemed to swim together. It hurt the longer she tried to make them out, so she looked away.

Then she realized that she could smell something. Hear it too. Someone was cooking.

It smelled good.

The courier tracked the sound to a kitchen. Inside, she saw an older man who had his back to her. He was hunched over a stove, whistling to himself. She just stood and watched him, unmoving, until he finally turned around.

He jumped when he saw her, nearly dropping the plate he was holding. “Woah, hey there! Didn’t hear you come in."

There was an awkward silence where he clearly expected her to say something. She didn't feel the need to fill it.

"So... you’re awake, how ‘bout that?” he said cheerfully, though she could tell that he was a bit nervous. He glanced at the scalpel in her fist.

She followed his gaze, but didn’t drop the blade just yet. The courier opened her mouth to say something and promptly choked, any half-formed words immediately dying on her tongue. The old man watched her struggle, his apprehension seemingly overshadowed by concern. “Easy, now. You been out cold a couple a days now. Just relax a second.”

A wary look, then a slight tilt of the head.

Thankfully, he understood the gesture and kept talking. “I’m Doc Mitchell. Welcome to Goodsprings,” he smiled wryly, probably due to the fact that he was introducing himself to a half-naked person holding a knife in his kitchen. “Can you tell me your name?”

 _My name._ The courier thought about that for a moment, and nothing came up. She slowly shook her head.

“No? You won’t tell me?”

She shook her head again, brows furrowed.

“Can’t?”

A nod.

“Can you say anything at all?” Doc Mitchell asked patiently. He set his plate down on the counter. “Take your time.”

The courier tried to form words again. After a few moments, she managed a hoarse, “Yes.” Her throat felt like sandpaper. “…H-hard,” she winced.

He nodded. “S’pose it’s to be expected after takin’ two bullets to the head. Dead center, too. You’re the luckiest son-of-a-gun in the Mojave to be standin’ in this here kitchen.” The doctor looked down at the scalpel in her hand once again. “Promise I don’t mean you no harm. Would you mind puttin’ that down?”

She looked between him and blade as she thought it over. Finally, the courier set the scalpel down on the kitchen table.

“Thank you,” he said gratefully. “Now, how about you get some clothes on while I fix you something to eat? Then we can see if you’ve got all your faculties back yet.”

It wasn’t until he mentioned eating that she realized how hungry she was. Thirsty, too. She nodded at him.

“Well, alright. I washed all the blood and grave dust out of your clothes. They’re in the bathroom right over here.” Doc Mitchell guided her down the hall. “Can you get dressed by yourself?”

A bit of pride made an appearance, and she nodded, slightly irritated even though she knew he meant well. The courier closed the door behind her and listened as the doctor’s footsteps headed back to the kitchen. Then she finally looked at herself in the mirror, hands gripping the sides of the sink to steady herself.

She wasn’t sure what she expected. There was some spark of recognition, but nothing more than the assurance that she was indeed looking at herself. The courier took stock of her face, turning it this way and that, looking over every detail. Tan skin and faint freckles dotting her cheeks and shoulders. Eyes that were a sharp, golden brown — a thin scar over the right one.Short, dark brown hair shaved on the sides into an undercut that clearly showed the bandages wrapped around her forehead. The center was dark with dried blood. It made her wonder what it looked like underneath.

She splashed some lukewarm water onto her face before she turned her attention to the clothes that were neatly folded on a stool in the corner. On the top was a red bandana. She picked it up gingerly, running her fingers over the fabric.

There was something about it — it meant something to her. She couldn’t remember what or why, but there was still a lingering feeling of relief that it was still there. The courier set it aside to put on the rest of her clothes.

Underclothes came first. Then a pair of tan cotton pants, a leather belt, a white button-up. She rolled the sleeves up before tying the bandana around her neck and pulling her socks on, followed by a pair of worn boots. It made her feel a little better to see herself with some clothes on. Like she was a real person, not some confused animal.

All that was left was a leather duster and a dark brown cowboy hat, which she tucked under her arm. No point in putting those on inside. The courier made her way back to the kitchen and saw Doc Mitchell seated at the table in front of a plate of scrambled eggs and sausage. There was another plate at the opposite end of the table.

Her stomach growled.

“You’re lookin’ much better now that you’re decent,” the doctor smiled.

She took a seat across from him, looking down at her plate — there wasn’t a knife — and back up at him. “Thankyou.” It came out more like one word than two.

His smile only grew. “You’re welcome. Go ahead an’ dig in. We can talk more after you’ve got some food in your belly.”

The courier ate quickly, though some sense of manners made her pace herself. She set her fork down once she was done, and Doc Mitchell picked up their plates and washed them in the sink.

“What… happened?” she rasped as Doc Mitchell picked up a satchel and brought it over to the table.

He sighed. “You got shot in the head. Twice, I might add. Had to pull out two 9mm slugs. Damn miracle that you’re still kickin.”

“Who?” When he narrowed his eyes in confusion, she tapped the center of her forehead. Right over the dark bloodstain.

“Who shot you? I didn’t see him or the men with him. You might ask around town, though. Could be someone saw which way they was headed. Your best bet would probably be Trudy, the bartender at the saloon up the road. If anyone saw anything, she'd know about it.” When she didn’t say anything in response, he spoke again. “Could you try to tell me your name again?”

She tried to recall, and failed again. “No. Don’t know."

“You can’t remember?”

The courier nodded.

“Can you remember anything from before?”

“…A bang. Then… just black.”

Doc Mitchell sighed. “Well, seems like your words are comin’ back at least. Gives me hope that any damage done to your noggin won’t be too permanent. Unfortunately, it sounds like you’ve got a bad case of retrograde amnesia. Maybe goin’ through some of your posessions here will help bring things back.”

He pulled a revolver out of the bag, but hesitated for a moment before he could hand it to her. She couldn’t exactly blame him when he stopped to empty out any remaining bullets from the chamber. “Hope you don’t mind, but I did take a look through your bag here. I noticed this — take a look at the grip.”

She gingerly took the gun from him and looked it over. It was an old pistol, clearly in need of a good servicing, and it was somewhat familiar to her: a .357 Magnum. Details automatically ran through her head.

_Old-fashioned, but reliable. A revolver never jams. Only six shots — more than enough if you know what you’re doing._

Upon further examination, she noticed that the wood grip had letters crudely carved into it, but many of them were worn away from years of heavy use. All that remained of the inscription was _JA_____CK._

“Jack,” she read aloud.

“Can’t say it’s what I’d have picked for you, but I figure that’s the best lead on a name we have,” Doc Mitchell explained as she set the gun down on the table. “You alright with me callin’ you Jack, or would you rather pick somethin’ else?”

The courier nodded. “Feels… close enough.” _Jack._ Frustratingly close. Like it only needed a tweak to be right; a few letters were wrong, or the length was off.

He nodded, putting on a pair of reading glasses and writing the name down on some paperwork. “Go ahead and look through the rest. It’s your stuff, after all.”

Jack slid the bag towards herself and took out a steel lighter along with a pack of cigarettes. The lighter had a _J_ scratched into the side. Apparently carving her name into things was something she did often.

“Smoker?” Doc Mitchell asked.

“Yeah.” She took out some other basic items. A canteen, a pair of sunglasses, some bottles of water, a few packs of trail mix. Nothing that held any information.

“You’re left-handed,” he pointed out. Jack blinked a few times before looking at her left hand. She hadn’t really noticed until he said so. Examining it further, she found a few calluses on her fingers — one on her thumb and the other on her index finger.

“Calluses,” she said, showing him her hand.

He took a closer look, peering down through his glasses. “Huh, good eye. Looks like they’re from that six-shooter of yours. You know much about guns?”

A nod. “It’s a .357. Old.”

“Given the scars on your body, I’d say you’re pretty well-traveled. My first thought would be NCR, but they don’t normally use revolvers. Do you know what the NCR is?”

“Soldiers,” Jack confirmed. “Lots. From California — west.”

“That’s right. You know who they’re fightin’?” Doc Mitchell made some notes as he questioned her.

She had to think about that one for a moment. “Caesar’s Legion. Slavers... from the east.” Just the mention of it suddenly made her blood burn. “I hate them.”

“You’re in good company there. Anything else in your pack?”

Jack pulled out a straight razor, and that apprehension returned to the doctor’s eyes. She set it down next to the other items. “Don’t want to hurt you,” she rasped, forcing past the pain that speaking brought. “…You probably think I’m crazy.”

“No, not at all,” he reassured. “Just tryin’ to be careful is all. Only natural for you to be defensive after wakin’ up in a stranger’s house with no memories in your head. That the last of it?”

She peered into the bag. “Just some spare clothes.” When she leaned back into her chair, she realized that there was something in her back pocket. Jack pulled a wooden rosary out and stared at it.

“A rosary, huh?" He glanced at it before returning to his writing. "You the religious type? Believe in a higher power?”

“No,” she immediately responded, wrinkling her nose a bit. That was something she knew for certain.

“I’m not exactly a godly man myself, but I have to admit that surviving what you’ve been through is nothin’ short of a miracle,” he chuckled. “Any idea why you’re holdin’ on to it then?”

“It's not mine. Was a gift.” Jack had no idea how she knew that, but as she thumbed the wooden beans, worn smooth with age, there was no doubt in her mind that it was true.

“Hm. Someone close to you, maybe? A family member?”

“Maybe.” That sounded right, but the feeling of certainty was quickly fading. She suddenly didn’t want to look at the rosary anymore — it made her sad for reasons she didn’t understand. Jack slipped it back into her pocket. “That's everything."

Doc Mitchell nodded, writing one more thing before standing. “Got a few things out of it, at least. I’d like to do a physical examination if that’s alright with you. Just standard stuff.”

She nodded and got to her feet, following him back into the room she’d woken up in. Without warning, he turned and threw something at her. Jack easily caught the pen in her left hand and gave him a confused look.

“Reflexes are still sharp as a tack,” he nodded, taking the pen back and making a note of it. They did some other tests and changed her bandages, but it was mostly just Doc Mitchell looking her over.

“So, here’s what we’ve got so far,” he said once they’d finished marking her height. “Seem to be between twenty-five and thirty years old. Five foot eight, a hundred and forty pounds. In good health besides that hole in your head. Tattoo of some playing cards on the back of your shoulder. Got all your teeth… and never had kids.”

Jack listened to him read the list, a blank look on her face. None of it really meant anything — just numbers and words to write on a form, describing the shell of a person, but nothing on the inside.

“How’s your head feel?” He peered at her over his reading glasses.

“Still hurts.” She tapped her foot, suddenly a bit antsy. They’d had to take a break in the middle of a test when another wave of pain had overcome her. “Comes and goes.”

“Describe what it’s like at its worst.”

She thought about it for a moment. “Hard to see. Light, sound — makes it worse,” she winced. “Can’t do anything. Just… have to ride it out.”

He nodded. “Migraines. Hopin’ those go away over time.”

“They might not?”

“Unfortunately. Just like your memory loss — things might improve, they might not. I’m sorry.” His voice was laced with pity, but she didn't feel much of anything. That seemed to be a theme when it came to her. “Well, we know your vitals are good, but I’d like to make sure that bullet didn’t impair anything else. What do you say you take a seat on my couch and we go through a couple questions? See if your dogs are still barking,” he smiled.

The two of them went into the living room and sat across from each other. “All right. I’m gonna say a word. I want you to close your eyes and say the first thing that comes to mind,” Doc Mitchell explained.

“Is this really necessary?” Jack shot him skeptical look.

“It’s clear that your memory isn’t what it used to be,” he pointed out. “I’m just trying to help you get back into the swing of things.” She couldn’t argue with that, so she closed her eyes and let him get on with it.

“Dog.”

_I think I had a dog once._

“Cat.”

_Might’ve had a cat too. Kept the mice away._

“House.”

_The hot desert sun was finally starting to retreat behind the horizon, the stale air growing cooler by the minute. She was still outside playing fetch with their black mutt of a dog. A voice, warm and inviting, beckoned her from inside the house to come in for dinner._

“Home.”

_She called back, begging for five more minutes like she usually did, but this time it wasn’t meant to be. Reluctantly, she headed to the back door, the windows glowing yellow in the twilight._

“Night.”

_Only a sliver of the moon hung in the sky when she was stopped by a group of rough-looking men on the side of the road. She was alone, still young and stupid, no first-hand experience with the darker parts of the world. Words were exchanged, the specifics of which didn’t matter. The sentiment was clear. Hand over everything you had, or they’d make you._

“Silencer.”

_You never forgot your first. Shots were fired, and by the end of it she was standing alone once again. The only thing cutting through the silence was her own labored breath as she saw the blood catch the moonlight, glowing white on deep red. So much red. If there was an epiphany to be had, it didn’t come until much later. She just dusted herself off and kept moving; it was all she could do._

_Maybe that was the lesson to be learned._

“Bandit.”

_Sometimes you were on the other side of the gun. A handful of no-good thieves with loose morals and crooked smiles — she fit right in. There was comfort in having a place where you belonged, even if it was one that would make your parents shake their head and sigh, asking where they went wrong._

“Job.”

_Posses like theirs never lasted long. Someone always ended up stabbing another in the back, running off with all your caps and leaving the rest to fight over what was left. You didn’t join for the job security. You joined for the thrill, the easy money, the sense of camaraderie. Eventually a reliable job would fall in her lap, by some stroke of luck. A job working for the Mojave Express._

“Light.”

_She was so beautiful, a splash of color against a sea of darkness. They’d sit in the sun for hours, throwing stones over cliffs and talking about nothing in particular. She never smiled so much as when she was in her company, and she found herself counting the days between visits. It was almost enough to make her stay._

_Almost._

“Flash—“

_The light was blinding, the sound was deafening, no matter how hard you squeezed your eyes shut or clamped your hands over your ears. It was the end of everything. A judgement of the living and the dead._

_And for some godforsaken reason, she was the one judged unworthy to die with the rest._

_Because it was her fault._

The courier let out a cry of pain as the light shattered through her head, white hot and unbearable. She clawed at her skull, dug at her eyes, pressed against her temples, anything to make it _stop_ —

A gentle hand on her knee made the light recede. It was still painful, but she could open her eyes and see Doc Mitchell leaned forward, eyes full of worry.

“—you okay, hon? We can stop if your head’s actin’ up.”

She took a few deep breathes. “…I’ll be fine,” she finally muttered, letting go of her head. “Let's just keep going.”

He didn’t seem convinced, but he nodded. “Alright, if you say so. Got one more word.”

“Mother.”

_Saintly was the only way to describe her. Always had a kind word to say, a warm smile to give. An infinite patience that her daughter loved to test._

“Regret.”

_So much regret. Shouted words that weren’t meant to hurt but stung all the same. Arguments where you were in the wrong but you kept fighting anyways, because you were too stubborn to swallow your pride and just admit it._

Jack was thankful that Doc Mitchell didn’t say anything about her answers. “Okay, now I've got a few statements. I want you to tell me how much they sound like something you'd say.”

“First one. ‘Conflict just ain’t in my nature’.”

She emphatically shook her head. “No way. That shit finds me whether I like it or not.”

“Glad to see you’re well enough to swear,” he said sarcastically before continuing. “I ain't given to relying on others for support."

“Damn straight.”

"I'm always fixing to be the center of attention."

Jack had to think about that one. Making a name for yourself, any kind of fame — it felt good. But it put a target on your head. “No.”

"I'm slow to embrace new ideas."

She just shrugged.

"I charge in to deal with my problems head-on."

“Yeah. Guess that includes gettin’ shot,” she said sardonically, pointing at her injury.

“Almost done here.” He reached down to pull up a few pieces of paper covered in ink blots. What do you say you have a look at this? Tell me what you see.”

Jack squinted at the card, not really seeing anything in particular. “If I cross my eyes a bit, I guess it looks like… a chain? A broken one.”

“How ‘bout this one?” He switched the card with another.

She hated this, but she smirked a bit at the second one. “I’m, uh, a bit hesitant to say what I think that looks like, Doc.”

Doc Mitchell rolled his eyes. “Last one.”

“Oh, that one’s clear as day. It’s two bears… high-fiving?”

“Well, that’s all she wrote.” He marked down her answer before setting the pen down on the clipboard and handing it to her. “I don’t have nothin’ to compare it to, so maybe you'd better just have a look at the results. See if it all seems right to you. There’s also a bit that I’d like you to fill out yourself — just general information.” Jack took the clipboard and flipped through the pages, skipping to the part she had to fill out. Doc Mitchell seemed to notice her staring at some of the questions. “Just leave any you can’t answer blank,” he added.

Reading was still just as hard as it had been when she woke up. It took all her concentration to fill in the blanks, and even then her letters were large and crude, barely legible. Jack handed the clipboard back when she was done, rubbing her forehead a bit.

“Appreciate your patience with all this,” he smiled. “You’ve been through a lot today. Why don’t you go lie down for a bit?”

She frowned and got to her feet. “What? Hell no, I gotta find the guy who did this to me. I’ve gotten enough beauty sleep.”

Doc Mitchell looked at her in disbelief. “I don’t think you understand how incredible it is that you’re able to stand there and talk back to me.” They stared at each other for a tense moment before he shook his head a little. “…Fine. Guess I can’t keep you cooped up any longer. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I hear you,” she grumbled.

He stood and grabbed something off of a shelf before walking back and handing it to her. “Well, if you're heading back out there, you ought to have this. They call it a Pip-Boy. I grew up in one of them vaults they made before the war. We all got one. Lucky for you, I’m left-handed too."

Jack turned it over, examining the buttons and the latch. “Here, let me help you with that,” he offered, securing it around her arm. “Ain't much use to me now, but you might want such a thing, after what you been through. I know what it's like, having something taken from you.” There was a sadness behind those words that made her look at him, but he didn’t elaborate.

“Thanks,” she nodded, fiddling with the screen a bit. It would take her a while to figure out all the menus. Working with computers didn’t seem to come to her as easily as guns or stealth did.

He nodded in return. “You should talk to Sunny Smiles before you leave town. She can help you learn to fend for yourself in the desert. She'll likely be at the saloon. I reckon some of the other folks at the saloon might be able to help you out, too. And the metal fella, Victor, who pulled you outta your grave.”

“I know how to fend for myself,” Jack immediately protested. “Made it this damn far, didn’t I?”

“Until you got shot,” he pointed out. She didn’t have a comeback for that. "Anyway, you ever get hurt out there, you come right back. I'll fix you up. Put some stimpacks in your bag for you, as well as some clean bandages. Be sure to change 'em out every few days until the bleeding stops. Also added some Med-X for the pain. Try to only use it if you have to.”

Jack headed for the door, but stopped midway. “Thanks again for patchin’ me up, Doc. And helpin’ me get back on my feet. I’d be in a real sorry state if you hadn’t.” She wrung her hat in her hands, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable.

“Any time,” he said warmly. “But try not to get killed anymore, alright?”

She smiled, putting her hat on over the bandages wrapped around her head. “I’ll try my best.”

With that, Jack pulled on her duster, opened the door, and stepped outside. The sun was harsh, forcing her to put her hand over her eyes as they adjusted to the light. Once they did, she got a look at the town she found herself in.

Goodsprings. A sleepy little settlement that looked to be in the middle of nowhere. Jack sighed, breathing in the dry desert air, before making her way down the hill.

She got the feeling that it was going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fixed some of the formatting on the last chapter - thanks for bearing with me while i figure this whole thing out (im open to critique!)


	3. Look Alive, Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day of many.

_Louder than God's revolver and twice as shiny_

_-My Chemical Romance_

Though the sun was brutal, Jack knew that it was only going to get worse as the day progressed. Time was wasting. Walking down the hill from Doc Mitchell’s house, she noticed a cloud of dust being kicked up by what looked to be a robot, rolling along on one wheel. “Hey!” she called out, raising a hand to get his attention.

The securitron turned to her as she approached him, revealing a large screen that displayed the face of a friendly cartoon cowboy. “Howdy, pardner! Might I say, you're looking fit as a fiddle.” Even though he couldn’t actually smile, it was safe to say that he was grinning.

“You the ‘metal fella’ that dug me up? Victor?” Jack asked. “I, ah… appreciate it. Would’ve been a goner if you hadn’t.”

“Don’t mention it!” Victor replied cheerfully. “I'm always ready to lend a helping hand to a stranger in need.”

“Think Goodsprings could win a prize for bein’ the most generous town in the Mojave,” she smirked. “How’d you find me, anyways?”

“I was out for a stroll that night when I heard the commotion up at the old bone orchard. Saw what looked like a bunch of bad eggs so I laid low. Once they'd run off, I dug you up to see if you were still kicking. Turns out, you were, so I hauled you off to the Doc right quick.”

“Guess he was right about bein’ lucky,” Jack mused. “Well, thanks again. I’d best be on my way.”

“No problem, pardner. Be seein’ you!”

She watched Victor roll away for a moment, a bit mystified by the friendly robot. The brutal heat quickly snapped her out of her reverie as a bead of sweat dripped down her back, prompting her to continue on her way to the saloon. It was easy to find given that it was one of the two large buildings in the center of town. An old man was sitting out front, and the way he looked her over gave her a strange sense of deja vu. Something told her that she’d be experiencing that a lot in the coming days.

Shaking off his piercing gaze, she pushed through the saloon door, so caught up in herself that the harsh growl of a dog completely caught her off guard.

“Cheyenne, stay!” a feminine voice ordered. Jack tore her eyes off the mutt and directed her attention to the owner of the voice. “Don’t worry, she won’t bite unless I tell her to,” she smirked. Sure enough, Cheyenne obediently laid back down at her feet.

Jack stared dumbly at her for a moment, causing the woman to raise an eyebrow. “You’re the one Doc Mitchell patched up, right? You sure you should be up and at ‘em so soon?”

“Ah— sorry. Guess I’m still tryin’ to get my head on straight,” she replied sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck. “Are you Sunny Smiles? The Doc said you could help me back on my feet, show me a thing or two.”

“That’s me. Yeah, I can help you out. Sounds like you need all the help you can get after what they done to you.” Sunny waved for her to come along as she headed towards the bar. “Hey Trudy, you got any empty sarsaparilla bottles?” she called.

An older woman came out from one of the back rooms. “Sure, I— well, I’ll be! I’m glad to see you’re still kicking.”

“Have we met?” Jack asked uncertainly.

“Sure have, though you never gave me a name.” She hoped she didn’t look as disappointed as she felt to hear that. “Doc Mitchell told me you might have some trouble remembering things. Sold you a few drinks before those no-good freeloaders took you by surprise. I’m sorry I didn’t hear anything outside, or I would’ve tried to do something about it.”

“Hey, that’s alright,” she said reassuringly. “Appreciate it, though. I’m Jack. Any idea where they were headed?”

“I’m Trudy.” The two shook hands, and Jack was a bit surprised by how firm her grip was. “They were talking about the Strip. Fella wants to get there and avoid the 15, he'd have to go east. Take Highway 93 up.”

She frowned. “Why’s that?”

“That whole area's overrun with the kind of critters that just get mad if you shoot 'em,” Trudy sighed, crossing her arms. “Merchants avoid that whole stretch of I-15 like it's radioactive. Which it could be for all I know. You’d do best to avoid it too.”

Jack made a note of that before Sunny chimed in. “I was gonna help our new friend here get back in the swing of things.”

“Oh, right! The sarsaparilla bottles.” Trudy ducked behind the counter and pulled out a half dozen glass bottles.

Sunny gathered them in her arms and pushed the back door open with her back, nodding for Jack to follow. “Thanks, Trudy!”

“Sure thing, Sunny.”

Upon walking back outside, Jack was immediately slapped in the face by a wave of heat. She watched as Sunny lined up a few bottles on the fence. When she came back over, she slung the rifle off her back and handed it to her. “Here. Take this and see if you can try and hit a couple of those,” she encouraged.

The weight of the rifle was familiar in Jack’s hands, and she felt confident as she looked down the sight. She took a breath, holding it just before squeezing the trigger.

Instead of hitting the bottle, it went right into the wall of the saloon, taking all of her confidence with it.

“Oof. Hope Trudy doesn’t get too cross with me after this,” Sunny said good-naturedly. “You’ll get the hang of it. I’d be surprised if someone who took two to the head managed to ace it on the first try.”

Jack just nodded silently, trying not to show how bruised her pride felt at the moment. She closed her eyes for a moment before trying again.

Another miss.

“Try crouching down. It’ll help your aim,” Sunny offered.

This was getting more and more frustrating. Though she appreciated how kind Sunny was being, Jack hated being treated like a child. She took a knee, tried three more times — none hit. An exasperated noise escaped her as she stood back up.

“Maybe we oughta try something else,” Sunny muttered.

“No, you— you don’t get it. I’m supposed to be _good_ at this,” Jack explained, trying to control her temper. Her apathetic haze was starting to wear off, and anger was setting in. Sharpshooting was in her blood, she just knew it. “If I can’t even hit a goddamn _bottle_ —”

Jack was cut off when her head suddenly throbbed. She winced, her hand flying to the bandages on her forehead. Everything suddenly seemed too bright, too loud, and it only amplified the pain.

“Hey, take it easy there.” Sunny took a step forward and put a hand on Jack’s shoulder, taking the rifle from her with the other. “You’re still fresh out of the grave. Things might not come back right away. It’s no big deal.”

She had to stop herself from insisting otherwise. _Yes it is. If it doesn’t come back now, it might never come back at all._

Jack took a few steps back, still clutching her forehead.

_I have to be good at something. There has to be something—_

A growl formed in the back of her throat, fueled by frustration and the sting of loss. Before she knew what she was doing, Jack’s head snapped back up and she drew her revolver, pulling the trigger.

_BANG._

The first bottle shattered into pieces. The two of them stared at it for a moment before she fired again, this time in quick succession.

_BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG._

Five shots in total — not one miss. The ground was littered with shards of golden glass. Sunny let out a low whistle, breaking Jack out of whatever trance she’d been in. “Well, would you look that. Nice shootin’. I knew you’d get the hang of it,” she smiled.

Jack instantly understood why they called her Sunny Smiles. It was radiant, lit up everything — the kind of smile that you couldn’t help but return. “Guess you were right.”

“Guess I was. S’pose you don’t need this, then,” Sunny nodded towards the rifle. “You’re plenty good with that revolver. Reckon you didn’t come to me to learn how to fight sarsaparilla bottles though, so I’ll tell you what. I gotta go chase geckos away from our water supply anyway. Darn critters are attracted to it,” she grumbled, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her face. “Why don't you come along?”

“Sure. Couldn’t hurt.” Jack started after Sunny, but stopped to look at the shards of broken glass near the fence. She wasn’t quite sure what compelled her to pick up one of the pieces — one that was smoother, not a hazard to her fingers. It created a square of golden light on the ground as she held it up to the sun. 

“Are you coming or what?” Sunny called.

Jack slipped the glass into her pocket, the start of a lifelong habit. She turned and scrambled to catch up with Sunny. “Yeah, wait up!”

It didn’t take long to clear out the springs, and Jack came out of it with a few more caps than she had before — which was good, because apparently her hat and boots sorely needed replacing. A pair of gloves wouldn't hurt either. Sunny taught her how to make healing powder while they were out — something she almost certainly knew before she’d been shot, but it was a nice refresher. Jack was grateful for how helpful Sunny was without coming across as condescending.

As they made their way back to the saloon, Jack briefly untied the bandana on her neck to wipe the sweat off her brow. Even though they’d only been outside for about an hour, the sun was just getting higher in the sky. It was a bit past noon — they were rapidly approaching the hottest time of day. It was best to find some shade before then if possible. Sunny nodded at the old man outside — “Easy Pete”, apparently — who actually smiled at her. When they made their way into the bar, they saw a man talking to Trudy. Despite the fact that he was right in her face, wearing a bulletproof vest with dynamite strapped to his belt, Trudy didn’t seem phased at all.

“Look, I’m done being nice. If you don't hand Ringo over soon, I'm going to get my friends and we're burning this town to the ground, got it?”

Trudy put a hand on her hip, like she was dealing with a petulant child. Sunny’s description of her as “town mom” suddenly made a lot of sense. “We'll keep that in mind. Now, if you're not going to buy something, get out.”

He glared at her for a moment before turning to leave, but his path was blocked by Jack and Sunny. “What the hell is your problem?” he spat.

“My ‘problem’ is you threatening this town,” Jack replied. She wasn’t intimidated by him. After staring death in the face, one surly asshole seemed trivial. “If I were you, I’d take my friends and get far, far away from here. Else we’re _really_ gonna have a problem, pendejo.”

“Think you’re tough, huh? Try me.”

Jack’s jaw clenched. She stared at him for only a moment before drawing her revolver and shooting him square in the foot, too fast for him to react.

 _“Shit!”_ The man cursed, hopping on one leg. She didn't try to hide the smug look on her face.

Sunny moved aside and started pushing him towards the door, one hand on his vest. Jack almost laughed simply because of how much the motion looked like scruffing a stray cat. “I can think of plenty of worse places for that bullet to be — now get the hell out of here.” 

He turned to get in a few more words after she practically threw him out. “We’ll be back here tonight! You’d better watch yourselves—!”

Sunny slammed the door in his face, and Trudy let out a sigh. “Well. That could’ve gone better, but it could’ve gone a lot worse too. They’ll be back with a vengeance.”

Jack hadn’t realized how much trouble she’d bring to Goodsprings when she pulled the trigger. To her, it was better to fire first and deal with the consequences later. “Suppose I should’ve thought about it before I did that,” she muttered.“After everything y’all have done for me, I’d be more than happy to help fight them off. Er— who even was that, anyways?”

It wasn’t an apology — she wasn’t sorry — but she did want to help.

“What’s done is done,” Trudy shrugged. “That was Joe Cobb, leader of the so-called Powder Gangers. Chain gangs, really. The NCR brought them in from California to work on the rail lines. Problem is, it turns out that giving convicts a bunch of dynamite and blasting powder isn't the best idea.” She shook her head before grabbing a rag off the countertop and wiping up the blood from Cobb’s wound. “Was a big escape not too long ago. Some of 'em stuck together so they could make trouble. That's what we're dealing with now.”

“So… who’s Ringo?”

Sunny answered that question. “He’s a trader. Came in about a week ago looking for a place to hide. None of us thought anyone would actually come after him, but here we are. He’s holed up at the abandoned gas station up the hill. Might be best if we go talk to him.”

“You two go on ahead — I don’t want any part of this.” Trudy stood back up and went behind the bar.

“C’mon Trudy, this was gonna break bad one way or the other. We need all the help we can get,” Sunny urged. She side-eyed Jack and nudged her with her elbow.

Jack got the hint. People looked up to Trudy — if they got her on their side, they actually had a fighting chance. “Yeah, you should help out. Bullets, explosions — lots of fun,” she grinned.

Trudy rolled her shoulders and let out a _long_ sigh. “I’m gettin’ too old for this,” she grumbled. “But for some reason I can’t help but like you, Jack. Alright, I’m with you. Let me have a word with a few other folks and I'll see if I can't round up some more members for this militia you're creating.”

“Thanks, Trudy. You won’t regret this,” Sunny beamed.

“Yeah, yeah. Go try to talk Chet into coughing up some armor before I change my mind,” she said sarcastically, waving at her and Jack as they left the saloon. They had their work cut out for them.

* * *

Just before sunset, practically everyone in Goodsprings was gathered in front of the Prospector Saloon. Even Victor was there, much to Trudy's chagrin. The energy in the crowd was palpable — like a buzzing in the air just before a thunderstorm. Cheyenne’s ears were laying flat on her head. Sunny stooped to give her a reassuring scratch while Jack impatiently tapped her foot.

The minute the Powder Gangers were spotted, everyone sprung into action. Jack, Sunny, and to everyone’s surprise, Easy Pete, were on the front lines — holding them back with bullets and dynamite. A few riflemen, Ringo included, took down stragglers from afar. The convicts didn’t stand a chance. They had no cover — the terrain was flat and unforgiving, and they were fighting against people who had lived their for their entire lives.

As the fight wound down, a nearby explosion knocked Jack flat on her back, dazing her for a moment. She couldn’t hear anything over the deafening ringing in her ears. It didn’t take long for Sunny to come into view, outlined by the reds and oranges of the sunset. She moved her lips like she was saying something.

“What?” Jack practically shouted.

“Are you okay?” Sunny repeated, raising her voice. She offered her a hand and helped Jack to her feet.

“Nothing I can’t walk off.” Jack dusted herself off and looked around. Most of the Powder Gangers were lying in the street — either dead or too injured to fight back — but she caught sight of a few that were running away with their tails between their legs. “You’re not gonna go after them?”

Sunny followed her gaze. “No. It ain’t our way to take any kind of vengeance. A lot of these fellas probably weren’t all that bad, just got caught up in something nasty. We’ll give first aid to any of the survivors. But what matters is that we _won_ ,” she grinned, looking back at Jackal.

Then she turned to the rest of Goodsprings and raised her shotgun in the air. “That’ll teach them not to mess with Goodsprings!” she shouted, rousing a wave of cheers from those still standing. Only a few of them were injured, and even those were minor — nothing Doc Mitchell couldn’t patch up.

Everyone lived. In the Wasteland, felt like nothing short of a damn miracle. Jack wasn’t too humble to accept the praise that was heaped upon her and Sunny, nor was she too generous to take the caps that Ringo offered her. She made a note to look him up at the Crimson Caravan Company when she could.

Later, as the sun finally retreated behind the hills, Jack found herself on the roof of the Prospector Saloon. She was swinging her legs over the edge as she tried to fix the radio in her lap. Fixing things seemed to be something else she was good at, along with lockpicking. She’d learned that when she easily jimmied a safe open out by the old schoolhouse.

Jack had started to make a mental list. _Sneaking. Shooting. Talking. Repairing. Lockpicking._ It was a small comfort to know that she still had some skills. The man in the checkered suit hadn’t taken everything from her, even if it felt like it at times.

Maybe _surviving_ was worth adding.

She took a break from the radio, setting it aside to look out over the landscape. As the sun faded, so too did the heat of the day, and it was a relief to breathe in the cool air. In the dark of the night, she could just barely see the lights of New Vegas over the mountains — a faint while glow against a backdrop of blue. Jack tilted her head back and looked up at the stars. Another comfort, something that hadn’t changed. The same constellations hung in the sky now as they did before she’d been shot. She just didn’t know their names anymore.

A noise drew her attention behind her, but she relaxed once she saw that it was just Sunny climbing up the ladder.

“Hey. Want some company?” She held up a couple of beers. “Figured we should celebrate.”

Jack grinned. “I like the way you think.”

Sunny pulled herself up onto the roof and took a seat next to her, handing her a lukewarm bottle of beer. The two tapped their drinks together before she popped the cap and took a sip. “That was some stunt we pulled. We wouldn’t have been able to do it without you, you know.”

“Kinda owed it to y’all after I shot Joe Cobb like that.”

“Yeah, but the whole situation with Ringo was never going to end well. You managed to bring everyone together, even Chet — takes a silver tongue to do that, believe me.”

Jack couldn’t help the smirk that formed on her face. “I can do a lot more than talk with this tongue, you know.”

Sunny choked on her beer, clearly not expecting Jack to flirt with her. She let out a laugh. “I’m _tryin’_ to compliment you here. You’re lucky you’re so damn charming — if you weren’t I’d probably push you off this roof.”

“Hey, can’t blame a guy for shootin’ their shot. Not every day that you meet the gecko-hunting girl of your dreams.”

She rolled her eyes, playing along. “I bet you say that to every gal who wears leather armor and shoots a varmint rifle.”

“As far as I know, you’re the first.” Jack tapped the bandages wrapped around her head. They’d probably need changing soon, given how much dirt and sweat had accumulated on them.

“Oh, that reminds me.” Sunny set down her beer and dug around in her bag for a moment before pulling out a leather-bound journal and a pen. “Doc mentioned that writing things down might help jog your memory at first, so I got you this. At the very least, I guess you could jot down things you don’t wanna forget twice,” she smiled.

Jack took the journal in her hand, brushing her thumb over the cover. She looked back at Sunny. Maybe it touched her more than it should’ve, but after losing everything, a thoughtful gift like that meant a lot. “Thanks,” she said softly.

“Don’t mention it. It’s the least I could do.”

Putting her beer aside, Jack returned her attention to the radio. Sunny watched her work for a few moments. “You seem awfully familiar with that thing.”

“Yeah. I—” Jack stopped abruptly. The ghost of a memory had resurfaced, but the moment she tried to reach out to it, it faded. Like trying to get a grip on sand — it just slipped through her hands the harder she tried. “I think I worked on them when I was a kid.” That was all she could manage.

“Huh. You just remembered that?”

“Kind of. Ain’t much more to it than that.” At the very least, it gave her the hope that more would follow. Jack finally realized what the problem with the radio was, and after fiddling with the parts for a few moments it finally sputtered back to life. She let out a triumphant cry as “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head?” started playing. Turning the volume down low, she set the radio down on the roof. The music softly filled the air, overshadowing the steady drone of crickets.

“Trudy will be happy to hear you fixed that thing,” Sunny smiled.

“I wish I could say I was doin’ it out of the goodness of my heart, but I kinda need all the caps I can get right now. There’s a rifle in Chet’s shop with my name on it.” She was good with a revolver, but there were a few moments during the shootout where having a gun with a longer range would’ve been nice.

“Can’t fault you for that.” Both of them took a few swigs from their drinks before Sunny piped up again. “What are you gonna do next? Go after the guys who tried to put you in the ground?”

Anger immediately colored Jack’s features, souring her good mood. “Yeah. Not much else I can do,” she muttered. Revenge was the only thing she had going for her — that, and a need to find out who she was. Who she’d been.

“Ah… sorry. Shouldn’t have brought it up.” Sunny rubbed the back of her neck. “You know, Jack… you can stay here if you want. I know it ain’t much, but you’re always welcome in Goodsprings.”

Her offer surprised Jack. For a brief moment, she considered it — settling down in little ol’ Goodsprings and hunting geckos with Sunny. It didn’t sound half bad.

But how could she stay when she didn’t even know her real name?

“I really appreciate it Sunny, but I gotta track that cabrón down first,” she sighed. “Just… something I need to do, y’know?”

“To be honest, I would’ve been surprised if you said yes,” Sunny admitted. “But I figured I’d offer anyways. You don’t seem like the type to stay in one place for long.”

Jack couldn’t deny that. There was a wanderlust deep in her bones. She looked out into the wastes and couldn’t help but wonder what else was out there, waiting for her. What kind of a mark she’d leave. “Yeah. Reckon it’s a part of the job description for ‘courier’. But I’d like to come back someday.” She turned her gaze back to Sunny. “Buy you a drink that’s actually cold.”

Sunny laughed. “That sounds real nice, Jack.”

They drank in comfortable silence for a little while before Jack finally sighed, tapping her fingers against her empty bottle. “I should probably turn in soon. Gonna head out early tomorrow, see if I can’t beat the heat for a little while.” The minute she said it, she realized that she didn’t know _where_ the hell she was going turn in.

Luckily, Sunny had her covered. “Nearly forgot — Trudy wanted me to tell you that she cleared out a back room for you to crash in tonight, as thanks for helpin’ us out.”

“Oh, that’s a relief. Figured I was just gonna have to rough it tonight,” Jack said wryly, getting to her feet.

“Nah, we take care of our friends here in Goodsprings.” Sunny raised her hand and Jack helped her to her feet, even though Sunny was clearly stronger than her. You didn’t hunt geckos for a living without building up some muscle. “Thanks. Reckon this is goodbye then.”

Jack didn’t want to say goodbye. The finality to it bummed her out. Friends were hard to come by, and Sunny made her feel a little less alone in the world — a special thing when you woke up with a head full of empty. “Don’t make it so sad. I’ll see you again.”

“Maybe. But just in case…” Sunny extended her hand, and Jack shook it.

They looked at each other for a moment, hand in hand. “What, no kiss?” Jack asked, cracking a smile.

“Oh my god. You’re unbelievable.” Sunny let go of her hand and grabbed the two empty bottles off of the roof. Jack turned to watch her leave, but Sunny stopped just before she reached the ladder — it surprised her when she walked back over to Jack and put a hand on her arm.

It surprised her even more when Sunny kissed her on the cheek. She had to stand on her toes to do it, given that she was a few inches shorter. 

Sunny gave her one last smile. “You take care of yourself, Jack.”

Jack returned it. For all her talk, she could feel her cheeks heating up. “You too, Sunny.”

* * *

Jack woke up at the crack of dawn the next day. Her first order of business was to immediately head to the general store and bang on the door until Chet answered it. He was less than pleased to see her, but he was somewhat mollified by the amount of caps she spent at his store.

Now she was standing at the top of the Goodsprings cemetery, watching the sun rise — she had two new boots on her feet, a black cowboy hat, and a lever-action repeater slung over her back. The rest of her money was spent on supplies, which had essentially cleaned her out. They never seemed to mention how the gunslinging heroes of old put food in their mouths and kept clothes on their backs — she’d have to keep an eye out for work on her path to vengeance.

She rubbed some of the tiredness from her eyes. Jack hadn’t expected sleep to be so elusive, but her dreams were full of fresh graves, flashes of light, and the sound of gunshots. Twice she woke up and felt like the walls of the storeroom she was sleeping in were caving in on her. She swore she could taste the grave dust in her mouth.

So much for losing her memories just being a figment of her imagination.

Med-X had finally granted her the relief she needed. Eased the pain that throbbed through her head, in more ways than one. Jack had made a point to stop by Doc Mitchell’s once again to ask for more — pay for it if she had to. But she managed to talk him into it, free of charge other than the earful he gave her about addiction and not overdoing it.

Jack walked over to the empty grave — _her_ grave — and knelt down next to it. There were a lot of cigarette butts littered on the ground. She picked one up and brought it up to her eyes, looked it over. It was a brand she didn’t recognize, but that didn’t mean much these days. She pocketed it anyways.

Then she got up and took a seat against the fence, the sun still creeping over the horizon. She could spare a few minutes before she left. Jack took the journal out of her bag, along with the pen, and opened it to the first page.

> _This journal belongs to:_

She wrote _JACK_ in large, crude letters. Unlike her speech and coordination, her handwriting had hardly improved at all. Reading wasn’t a walk in the park either. Maybe it wasn’t a result of the head trauma — maybe she’d always struggled with it.

> _If lost, return to:_

Jack stared at the page. She’d have to leave that blank for now.

> _Start date:_

A quick glance at her Pip-Boy answered that question. _10/20/2281._ She was still getting used to the weight on her arm — she’d blame her poor performance with Sunny’s varmint rifle on that.

Jack flipped to the last page in the journal. At the top, she wrote:

> _WHAT I KNOW_

Underneath, she listed some of the things Doc Mitchell had told her that weren’t obvious at first glance. _Name starts with JA and ends with CK. Left-handed. Well traveled. Can speak some Spanish. Not religious — raised that way?_ Along with it, she jotted down the skills she knew she had, her opinions on the factions that were at war in the Mojave ( _NCR: Okay, Cesar’s Legion: Fucking hate them_ ), and some of the few memories she’d recovered.

> _I fixed radios when I was a kid._
> 
> _Had a good mom._
> 
> _Worked some shady jobs before I became a courier._

She thought about the blinding light she saw in her dreams, about the ghost of a woman in her past. Jack decided not to write that down — something told her it was a memory she didn’t mind forgetting.

After turning back to the first page, she recorded down the events of the day before. An account of the shootout, resulting evening, and her new rifle, which she’d already named — Ringo. Something about the name had struck a cord with her. One of nostalgia, like the feeling you got from rereading your favorite book.

Jack paused for a moment.

> _I think I’ve watched a lot of old Western holotapes._

With that, she shut the book and tucked it away. Staring at the page had started to give her a headache. She needed to get a move on anyways.

Jack stood, cracking her back, and looked out over Goodsprings one last time. The sun had finally risen past the hills, and the world seemed to be just waking up. A few stray birds were chirping in the crisp morning air. She watched a few specks in the distance — farmers — leave their houses to start the day.

“Watch out New Vegas,” she muttered. Jack made her way down the hill, eyes set on the distant, fading lights of the Strip.

“Jack’s comin’ for you.”


	4. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting between a fox and a jackal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: some drug use/mentions of needles

_Ghosts and devils come calling_

_Calling my name out, lost in the fire_

_-Barns Courtney_

It took Jack two weeks to reach Nipton.

She’d ignored Trudy’s warning about going north and paid for it in blood. When she finally reached the deserted city, she had a scar on her thigh the length of her forearm. Just another near-death experience to add to the list.

The unnatural silence instantly put her on edge as she approached the ruined town, only broken by the sound of crackling fires and banners flapping in the wind. Banners that were red and tattered, emblazoned with a golden bull. A symbol she’d never seen with her own eyes — not that she could remember, at least — but that she’d heard tales of at the Mojave Outpost. It was the mark of Caesar’s Legion.

She felt a chill go up her spine.

With the fire came the choking smell of burning rubber — Jack got the feeling that if she’d been there any earlier, she’d be smelling burning bodies too. Now, all that was left were piles of blackened bones. She pulled her bandana up over her face in an effort to block some of the smoke out. It couldn’t hurt to try to conceal herself, either. She knew what men like them did to anyone they thought was a woman.

The eyebot beside her let out a few scared beeps. He was one of two treasures she’d picked up in Primm, the other being her new revolver, a .357 Magnum with inlays that had made her whisper _beautiful_ when she'd taken it out of its safe. It came with a name too, engraved in silver on the barrel — Lucky. Ringo had gained a friend.

And so had Jack. It had taken her hours to figure out how to fix the damaged robot, but her hoarding paid off — she had more than enough spare parts to get the job done. She and ED-E, which she’d gotten from the license plate welded to his chassis, had been inseparable ever since.

“I don’t like the look of this either,” she muttered. “But Ranger Ghost said there could be survivors. I’m gonna take a look around first. You stay here, okay?”

His beeping turned concerned.

Jack sighed. “I know boy, but if something happens to me, you need to tell them what happened back at the outpost.”

ED-E played his theme music, and she smiled. “That’s what I like to hear. I’ll be back before you know it.” She faced the town again, steeling herself for what she might find.

Nothing could’ve prepared her for the man that ran out of town, straight towards her. She reflexively drew her revolver — as you do, when a strange man charges you — but he stopped just in front of her. He was hooting and hollering about winning… some sort of lottery?

“Yeah! Who won the lottery? I did! Smell that air! Couldn’t you just drink it like booze?!” he yelled, laughing hysterically.

Jack had seen her fair share since waking up in Goodsprings, but she had no idea how to react to this — especially when she’d been preparing to face a group of deranged murderers in skirts. “What in God’s name are you talking about?” she asked, holstering her gun. “What lottery?”

“What lottery? _The_ lottery, that’s what lottery! Are you stupid?” She narrowed her eyes, but he kept going before she could respond. “Only lottery that matters! Oh my _god,_ smell that air!” He laughed again, pumping his fists in the air.

She blinked before realizing that she didn’t feel like engaging with this man any further. “Congratulations,” Jack said flatly, stepping aside to let him go. He ran past her, cheering the whole way, and she watched him head right for a radscorpion burrow that she’d sidestepped earlier.

Jack winced, feeling a headache coming on. “I didn’t hallucinate that, right?” she muttered. “That wasn’t the head trauma?” Turning back to the grisly sight of Nipton, she debated if this was really worth it or not. She had to remind herself of the potential survivors to get her feet to start moving again.

The first building she came across appeared to be what was left of the general store. She slowly opened the door, and was met by another man who was much less happy to greet her.

“Goddamnit, I was nodding off until you barged in here! And I don’t hurt when I sleep!” he practically shouted from the chair he was slumped in. “Just give me some goddamn Med-X and fuck off, will ya?”

He seemed younger than her, dark skin contrasting against his pale blue shirt. Both him and the man from earlier were Powder Gangers from the looks of it. Jack decided to side-step his request. “What happened here?” she asked, stepping inside and closing the door behind her.

“The Legion happened. What the fuck's it look like?” he spat, crossing his arms.

“If the Legion happened, how’d you survive?” From what she’d heard, legionaries weren’t the merciful types. Jack picked up a lottery ticket off the floor and looked it over. The paper was flimsy and thin, embossed with gold letters that read _Nevada State Lotto._ It felt new despite the text. They must’ve found whatever printed them before the war.

The man let out a bitter laugh. “Luck, that’s how. I’m just that fucking lucky. You're looking at the second place winner of the Nipton lottery — that asshole Swanick took first place, so him they let walk.”

“I ran into him outside. Why didn’t you leave with him?”

“I dunno, I just love it here,” he smiled, voice dripping with sarcasm. “What the fuck do you think, asshole? Prize for second place was I got to live, but they beat my fucking legs with hammers. I'm fucking crippled, get it?”

Jack looked at his legs — she hadn’t noticed how still they’d been. “Shit,” she said quietly, face falling. “I’m sorry.”

“You know how you could make it up to me?” he replied, not at all appeased by her apology. “With some fucking Med-X.”

She looked at him for a moment. “Sorry, but I don’t have any.” It was a lie, an ugly one — honest was not a word that described Jack, but even she felt shame burn through her as soon as the words left her mouth.

The guilt must’ve been visible on her face despite how hard she tried to hide it. “Bullshit.” He jabbed an accusatory finger at her. “You're holding, you just want it all for yourself!”

She glared at him before looking back at the lottery ticket in her hand. “You got a name?”

There was a beat before he answered, quieter than his earlier tirades. “The guys call me Boxcars. Or they used to, before the Legion killed them all.”

Jack crumpled the ticket up and tossed it to the ground before moving to the store shelves.

“What, you’re really gonna steal from the crippled guy?”

“I’m not gonna take anything,” she said quietly, unsure if she was lying or not. “Just tell me about the lottery.”

“It ain't like we came to Nipton to play it. Me and my crew had it worked out to kidnap some NCR troopers who come to town to get laid. Had it all worked out with the scumbag mayor. We were gonna ransom them off, keep their weapons for ourselves, a nice score.”

She remembered finding part of a journal in an old gas station on the road to Nipton. It looked as if it had been printed out rather than handwritten, which made it easier for her to read. Skimming it had told of a Mr. Fox, a Super-Mayor Joseph B. Steyn III Esq., and a plan that was obviously going to lead to a double-cross. “I’m guessing things didn’t go according to plan.”

“No shit. We get in position and next thing we know, we're surrounded by those fucking Legion freaks. They dragged us and everybody else into the center of town. And that asshole with a dog on his head, he starts talking about how we're bad people!” His tone shifted from anger to muted horror as he recalled what happened. “He said we needed to be punished for what we did, not all of us, but some of us. And then he gives everyone a fucking lottery ticket…”

Jack pulled up a chair as she listened to Boxcars’ story. “And then?”

“What do you think? He started drawing tickets, and that's how people got punished. First up was the ‘lucky losers.’ They got decapitated - guess that's ‘lucky’ because it's pretty quick. Then came the crucifixions. Goddamn, but those went on and on and on…” He sighed, brow furrowed, like remembering it was painful. “Third-place runners-up got enslaved. I got the fuck beat out of my legs, and the winner they let go free.”

“What happened to the mayor?”

“Him? When his ticket came up, they burned him alive on a pile of tires,” he replied cheerfully.

“Karma’s a bitch,” she huffed, feeling absolutely no pity for the man.

“Damn straight.”

They were silent for a moment as Jack thought about what she’d told him.“You said some of the people were enslaved?”

“Yeah, a bunch of those Legion fucks dragged them off right away. They was headed East, if you’re feeling heroic.”

She got out of her chair and started heading for the door. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Don't act like you'd be doing me a favor,” he grumbled. “I don’t give a fuck.”

Jack had to bite back any nasty comments regarding his temperament. She supposed she’d be surly too if she was in his place. “Thanks for the info. I’m gonna look for any survivors.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Just before she reached the door handle, guilt made her stop short. She wrestled with her own morality for a moment before letting out a sigh. Jack dug in her bag for a moment before pulling out her med-kit. It was with dismay that she counted only five doses of Med-X left inside.

She shut her eyes for a moment, hoping she wouldn’t regret what she was about to do, then took two out and walked back over to Boxcars. “Here.”

He looked at her suspiciously, like she was trying to trick him. “I don’t need your fucking pity.”

“Just take it before I change my mind,” she forced through grit teeth.

Boxcars glanced between her and the Med-X before taking them from her hand. “Fine.”

 _Would a ‘thank you’ have killed you?_ Jack just shook her head before leaving, stepping back into the dark street. She knew now that the chances of finding anyone the Legion might’ve missed were incredibly slim, but she pressed on anyways. She’d come this far.

Jack walked slowly down the road, between the fires and the wreckage. Every now and then there was the sound of a lottery ticket being crushed under the heel of her boot, like dry leaves in autumn. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend that she was somewhere else — somewhere with trees that shed their leaves, where the sound of crackling flames came from a campfire rather than a pile of tires. Somewhere that hadn’t seen this kind of tragedy.

The crucifixes loomed ahead of her, tall and imposing. It was with horror that she realized that the man nailed to the makeshift was still alive — all four of them were, barely clinging to a life that had ended days ago.

It made her sick. No one deserved this fate, not even the man who’d shot her. _What kind of twisted psychopath could do this to someone?_

As if answering her unspoken question, she noticed a man walking towards her from the town hall at the end of the road, wearing Legion red. Jack registered the four men and two dogs following him with uneasiness. If this came to a fight, she was badly outnumbered.

Regardless, she stood her ground, calmly facing him as he approached her. She rested her hand on the grip of her revolver — just in case.

The man was pale, not much taller than her, and wearing a hood made from the head of some sort of canine. It was safe to assume that this was the “asshole with a dog on his head” that Boxcars had mentioned. “Don't worry, I won't have you lashed to a cross like the rest of these degenerates,” he said, voice just as icy as the rest of his demeanor. “It’s useful that you happened by. What’s your name?”

She’d never heard anyone speak so pleasantly while remaining as frigid as a Montana winter. Not wanting to give this man anything, she avoided his question. “I’m guessing you’re Mr. Fox.”

He smiled at her, a cold and unfeeling thing — more like baring his teeth than showing friendliness. “Ah, so you’ve heard of me. My true name is Vulpes Inculta, of Caesar’s Legion. I serve my master as the greatest of his Frumentarii.” His smile quickly faded. “But I asked you a question.”

She looked at his hood. “That’s not a fox on your head, though. It’s a coyote.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” he replied flatly.

“Have you been waiting here for two days just so someone could walk along and play errand boy for you?”

Irritation colored his features. “I’m losing my patience, profligate. Your _name_.”

She didn’t know what a profligate was, but it was safe to assume that it wasn’t good. Jack rushed to come up with a lie. _Don’t coyotes have another name?_ One that was close to hers, that some of the raiders of the Mojave used. She tried to remember. _Fiend, Viper, and—_

“Jackal.”

He didn’t understand at first. “Excuse me?”

 _Play dumb._ “That’s my name,” she explained, expression purposefully blank. “Jackal.”

Vulpes’s face darkened slightly, seemingly unable to tell if she was mocking him or not. Truthfully, she wasn’t quite sure either. “Very well, _Jackal._ ” He spat her name as if he couldn’t get the taste out fast enough. “I want you to witness the fate of the town of Nipton, to memorize every detail. And then, when you move on? I want you to teach everyone you meet the lesson that Caesar’s Legion taught here, especially any NCR troops you run across.”

She glared at him. “Am I getting paid for this? ’Cause I don't work for free.”

“I believe that letting you go with your life is payment enough.” He turned his back towards her and began walking back towards his men, the rest of his words thrown over his shoulder. “Vale — until we meet again.”

Jack watched them leave, heading east out of the town. Once she was sure that they were far enough away, she drew her revolver and walked up to the first crucifix. She didn’t have the medical knowledge or supplies to save them, so she gave them the only thing she could: mercy. Four gunshots rang out in the night.

When the town hall offered up little information, the rest of the night was spent searching for survivors. Other than a few more dead bodies, a Mr. Gutsy, and a cage full of radscorpions, Jack didn’t find anything of note. Unsurprising, but unfortunate all the same.

She startled when she passed a broken mirror in one of the houses, surprised by the golden eyes staring back at her, glowing faintly in the darkness. Her eyes. Jack moved closer and stared at her reflection, pulling her bandana down. It was something she’d noticed weeks ago, the first time she saw her face in the glass screen of her Pip-Boy late at night, and she was still getting used to it. She’d thought it was a hallucination at first, but it was real — other people saw it too. 

The eyes that looked back at her weren’t human. Just close enough to fool people during the day. The moment the sun began to set, they looked more like what you saw when you shined a flashlight in a nightstalker den. Any memory that might’ve explained why had been erased. All that remained was the dim knowledge that they were not the eyes she was born with.

_I think I had brown eyes._

Not for the first time, Jack felt as if she wasn’t quite whole — just what was left of the person that died in Goodsprings, reanimated by a need for revenge and the unshakable pull of unfinished business.

If only she could remember what that business was.

_Jackal._

The best lies were half-truths. Though the name had been created as a way to throw Vulpes off, it resonated with her more than she expected. It was fitting for a person who wasn’t quite right, not all there. One foot in the desert and the other in a shallow grave.

If there was one thing Jack knew to be true about herself, it was that she didn’t want to be forgotten again. It bothered her, not knowing if there was anyone out there who cared about her, if there was someone leaving a light on for their missing loved one. Sometimes she didn’t know which was worse. The idea that there was, or the probability that there wasn’t.

The Mojave would remember her name if it killed her — she’d made her mind up about that from day one. But now she was left wondering what that name would be.

The revolver in which she’d carved the letters _JACK_ was stowed away in her bag, replaced by the one she’d found in Primm. There was something poetic in taking the name salvaged from her old life and turning it into something new. That was what she was out there doing, wasn’t it? She couldn’t go back to the way things were before she was shot, so it was best to take what she could and move on.

Her head twinged again, painful enough to cause her hand to fly to the bandages there. Behind it, there was an itch that she couldn’t seem to scratch with anything other than a needle. Jack debated it for only a moment before she pulled the medkit out of her bag once again, readying a vial of Med-X and rolling up her sleeve. She wrinkled her nose at the track marks that had started to accumulate on her arm. In the back of her mind, she knew it was a problem that was only going to get worse unless she did something about it.

But it would have to wait. Jack found a vein — wincing at the pinch of the needle — and administered the medication, the motion becoming well-practiced. Then she rolled her sleeve back down, packed up her supplies, and was on her way again. She let out a sigh of relief as the Med-X started to kick in.

ED-E swayed from side to side as she rejoined him down the road, and he made a serious of noises that she could only interpret as relief. “Hey, I told you I'd be back, didn’t I? Let’s get the hell out of here.”

They were both more than happy to leave the burning city behind them.

The trek back to the Mojave Outpost was a quiet one, as Jack didn’t feel like disturbing the soft chirp of crickets with her radio. Besides, she had some thinking to do. Once the statue of the NCR trooper and desert ranger loomed in the distance, she looked at ED-E. “Y’know, I think we can do better than ‘Jack’. What do you think of the name ‘Jackal’, bud?”

He beeped cheerfully.

“Yeah, I think I like it too,” she smiled.

A courier named Jack entered Nipton, but a myth named Jackal left.


	5. Chairkickers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First impressions.

_We fight ’til we fall, us chairkickers all_

_We cling to these coils and curl in a ball_

_The harbor is teeming with commerce and crime_

_I own only what owns me_

_This place ain’t my home, but I’m calling it mine_

_-Brown Bird_

After three days of walking, any relief that Jackal might have felt upon seeing the outline of Novac in the distance was ruined by the four Legion assassins that were chasing her down. Given that it had been a while since she’d been able to stock up on ammo, she was running for her life, with ED-E doing his best to provide covering fire right behind her.

While traveling, she’d run into some merchants that were being attacked by men wearing crimson. Jackal usually wouldn’t risk her hide for a stranger, but after seeing what the Legion was capable of in Nipton, she’d decided that no one deserved to fight off those bastards alone.

After the legionaries had been taken care of, one of the merchants warned her that Caesar’s Legion held grudges against wanderers like her that dared to stand against them. Jackal had laughed in his face. Surely the Legion had no idea who she was, and there were no survivors to report the story anyways. But somehow they’d found out — word in the Mojave traveled quicker than she’d anticipated.

Maybe leading a group of legionaries towards the town was a bad idea, but she wasn’t planning that far ahead. She just needed time to come up with a way out of the bind she found herself in, and the bullets whizzing past her ears made it too difficult to think.

Once she was within ten yards of the chain-link fence surrounding the town, a shot rang out, and the legionary closest to her fell to the ground. A glance upwards revealed movement in the mouth of the huge dinosaur statue in front of the town — something she did _not_ have the ability to process at the moment.

 _Oh shit._ She wasn’t entirely sure where they were firing from, but she dove for the ground in case they saw her as a target as well. Jackal winced as her arms grated against the asphalt, her duster preventing her from breaking skin. The road hadn’t yet become searing hot, as the sun was just starting to rise.

There was another shot — another thud. _Two for two._ She rolled onto her back, hastily drawing her rifle and aiming at the next assassin — but her shot was ruined when he leveled his _own_ gun with her and forced her to dodge. The bullet embedded itself in the asphalt next to her head. Jackal let out a sharp breath.

A third _BANG_ , and her attacker was no longer a threat. She aimed her rifle again, determined to salvage a bit of her pride. The last man standing clearly didn’t know if he should shoot high or low, and that indecision was his undoing. The last shot was the loudest. Jackal realized that they’d fired at the same time.

Silence descended upon the five men lying on the ground — four still as stone, while one attempted to catch her breath. She laid on the asphalt for a moment as the adrenaline rush faded. Jackal had learned not to question her lucky breaks — just to be grateful for them.

A deep male voice coming from somewhere above her interrupted her thoughts. “Hey. You alright?”

She squinted up at the sky, her head still spinning. “God?”

“Up here.” Jackal turned her head to look up at the mouth of the dinosaur. Within it, she saw a man wearing a red beret and a pair of sunglasses. He shifted his grip on the scoped hunting rifle in his hands. Her mysterious savior, apparently.

“Yeah, I’m uh, I’m fine,” she responded. “Just gonna hang out here for a sec. Thanks for the help.”

“Always happy to put bullets into Legion skulls,” he called back, not sounding very happy at all.

Her brow furrowed and she opened her mouth to say more, but he retreated out of sight before she could get the words out. Looking to her right revealed a nervous ED-E hovering nearby. He let out a concerned beep.

“I’m okay bud, don’t worry.” Jackal pushed herself to her feet, grabbed her hat, and dusted herself off. She took one more deep breath before she walked over to the fourth legionary and crouched next to his head. Turning his face revealed the two entry wounds in his forehead — they’d both hit their mark, though the larger of the two was nearly dead center while the other veered left by an eighth of an inch.

“Huh,” she muttered. “Reckon we got shown up, Ringo.”

Jackal stood, staring at the legionary for another moment before she made her way to the chain link fence surrounding the motel. She pulled on the gate, but it was firmly shut, kept in place by a padlock.

When she saw the sniper from earlier making his way across the motel courtyard, she tried to get his attention. “Hey! Could use a hand here.”

He glanced over at her but continued walking as if she hadn’t said anything at all. The door to his room was unlocked and swiftly closed behind him.

Jackal threw her hands up, as if to say _what the hell_. Thankfully, a man heading in the opposite direction seemed to notice the interaction. He walked over, pulled a key out of his pocket, and started unlocking the gate. “Sorry about him,” he grumbled. “Don’t take it personally, he’s like that to everyone.” The gate swung open, and he gave her a friendly, albeit tired, smile.

“Thanks. I’m Jackal,” she nodded.

“I’m Manny,” he replied, shaking her hand. If he found her name unusual, he didn’t show it. “I’m on security detail here. You see a rifle barrel sticking out of the dinosaur’s mouth, you got a fifty-fifty shot it’s me. Otherwise it’s Boone.”

“Guessing that was him?” She raised an eyebrow. “Real friendly guy. Damn good shot, though.”

Manny sighed and started to walk towards the dinosaur while Jackal followed. “Yeah. He’s a sniper, same as me. Used to spot for him when we were enlisted with the NCR.” She glanced at the red beret on his head — the same one Boone had been wearing. It wasn’t familiar to her beyond that. “After we got out, I talked him into settling down here. So, here we are. I’d introduce you, but uh... we’re not so friendly right now.”

That was none of her business, but it didn’t stop Jackal from asking about it. “Why are you on bad terms?”

“Me and his wife, we didn’t see eye-to-eye on some things. We had some pretty big arguments.” Manny stopped at the stairs leading up to the dinosaur. “One day she turns up missing, and he hasn’t said a word to me since.”

“Oh.” That was a lot heavier than she’d expected. “Well uh, I’m lookin’ for someone. You ever see a guy in an ugly checkered suit ’round here?”

“Sure, I know him,” Manny nodded, crossing his arms. “Benny, right?”

Jackal perked up. He didn’t just see him, he _knew_ him, and she finally had a name for her revenge fantasies. _Benny._ You could fit a lot of hate in two syllables — it was something to curse out every time her head throbbed or her calves burned.

“What do you want with him?” Instead of appearing guarded, Manny just looked curious, like he had no stake in what happened to the guy.

Still, lying came naturally to her. She trusted no one — if she could fool others, it meant that other people could fool her too. “He’s a good pal of mine,” she smiled, mirroring his posture. “I’m a courier. Heard he got a package that he could use a hand with.”

Manny didn’t seem to totally buy it, but he also didn’t seem to care if she was telling the truth or not. “Good pal, huh? If you say so, man,” he shrugged. “Listen, I can definitely help you find him, but I’ve got problems of my own.”

Jackal had to suppress a groan. _Of course you do._ Everyone in the entire goddamn Mojave just wanted to watch her wear out the soles of her boots by making her run in circles. “What do you need?”

Maybe he picked up on her annoyance, because his explanation was mercifully quick. “Novac, it’s home for me now. I want that to be for good. Most of the people here trade junk, and they get it from the old rocket test site up the road. But a bunch of ghouls showed up one day and took it over. We can’t get in there now.”

“And?”

“Well they gotta go, or this’ll be a ghost town before long.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter to me what you do. As long as the ghouls are out of there, that’s good enough.”

She let out a sigh. “Alright. I’ll take care of it.”

Manny marked the location of the rocket test site on her Pip-Boy before heading up to his post. Apparently he covered the day shift while Boone worked nights — she’d caught them right as they were switching out.

It was still early, the sun barely peeking over the horizon. Jackal took a few seconds to stretch, her back releasing a few unhappy cracks. There was plenty of time left in the day and it was a simple enough task. If she was lucky, she’d be done by nightfall.

* * *

Maybe her luck only consisted of an unlikely ability to survive life-threatening events. Jackal had been expecting ferals — what she got were ferals, a cult of ghouls hellbent on launching themselves into space, and a bunch of delusional nightkin.

Never a dull moment, she could say that much.

After proving to the nightkin that the shipment of Stealth Boys they were after had long been transferred to another site, she returned to Novac with what was essentially a grocery list — except the only two items on it were atomic fuel and rocket thrust controllers.

Jackal figured that Novac’s general store was as good a place to start as any. If she’d been low on ammo _before_ she headed to REPCONN, her guns were near empty by the time she was done. She reached the dinosaur statue right as the sun began to dip below the skyline. Working from dawn to dusk seemed to come naturally to her. It wouldn’t be a stretch to guess that she’d grown up on a farm — plenty of people did.

The store itself was small, covered in cracked green paint just like the outside. There was a smiling man behind the counter — middle-aged, by the look of his laugh lines and receding hairline. “Welcome to the Dino Bite Gift Shop,” he said warmly. “My name’s Cliff. If you’re here for the t-rex figurines, you’re just in time. There’s still a few left.”

“T-rex figurines?” Jackal asked with an amused smile as she took off her hat. Sure enough, there was a miniature version of the dinosaur they were standing in next to the cash register.

“Yep. Replicas of Dinky himself. Great souvenirs, and perfect gifts for your friends and loved ones.”

She knew a well-practiced pitch when she heard one. Jackal wondered how long he’d been stuck with the pre-war toys as she took a look around. Unfortunately for him, she had few friends and zero loved ones. “Uh-huh. You got supplies too? Ammo?”

Cliff’s face fell. “Ammo? I, uh, well… yeah, I guess I’ve got some. Darn it. No one ever buys the t-rexes.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’ll take as many .357 magnum rounds as I can carry.” Her attention was directed towards the shelves lining the walls as she searched them for anything she might need. “You, uh… you wouldn’t happen to sell any medical supplies, would you? Stuff like Med-X?”

She heard him start taking out boxes of ammunition and placing them on the counter behind her. “Med-X? No, I’m afraid not.”

 _Damn._ “Just curious.”

Jackal’s eyes were drawn to a glass case mounted on the wall. Stepping closer, she saw a stunning hunting rifle mounted inside. The barrel was in perfect condition, and there was a familiar flag wrapped around the polished walnut stock — it was love at first sight. She was so entranced that she almost jumped when Cliff spoke up. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Oh, yeah,” she smiled sheepishly, turning to him.

“Here.” He tossed her a key, which she caught easily. “Feel free to take a closer look.”

She unlocked the case and gingerly took the gun in her hands, testing the weight. It was _almost_ perfect — just a bit too heavy for her. If she was a little stronger, or maybe a few inches taller, she could wield it more effectively. “She got a name?”

“Yep. Paciencia.”

A lump formed in Jackal’s throat as she stared at the flag. _Paciencia, loba. Paciencia._ “Patience,” she translated quietly. It would explain the three-round magazine. 

“You speak Spanish?” Cliff asked, pleasantly surprised.

“A little. Mostly just use it to swear.” She tried to laugh off the sorrow that had suddenly come over her. Whether she’d understood more before she’d been shot or if she’d lost her native tongue long ago — she didn’t know. “This flag... it’s Mexican, right?”

“That’s right, though I can’t say I’ve ever been. Traveler sold that rifle to me years ago. Been sitting here, waiting for a new owner ever since.” He looked at her expectantly.

“Alright, Cliff,” she smirked. “How much?”

“Well, normally I’d say 16,000 caps. But you seem nice enough — what do you say to 15,000?”

Jackal’s eyes widened. “Cliff, I really appreciate you tryin’ to give me a deal here, so I won’t waste your time. I ain’t got nearly enough for this.” She couldn’t help the disappointed sigh that escaped her, and she looked down at the rifle sadly.

Cliff seemed disappointed too. “I’m real sorry to hear that. I wish I could sell it for less, but—”

“Hey, that’s business. I get it,” she nodded. Jackal set it back in the case, her gaze lingering for a moment.

 _I could steal it._ Maybe to other, better people, that thought would be worrying — but she was used to it by now. It wouldn’t be hard to sneak back into the shop at night, and the lock on the case itself looked simple enough to pick.

But Cliff was nice. Jackal liked him. That was enough to make her lock the case and hand the key back to him. “Thanks for letting me see it anyways. Maybe one day I’ll come back and be able to cough up the caps,” she mused. “Once I strike it rich on the Strip or something.” 

After stocking up on a few more supplies and buying a t-rex figurine — which left Cliff grinning from ear to ear — Jackal made her way back down the steps of the dinosaur. It was nearly dark, and the sky had turned a deep violet. She couldn't stifle the yawn that escaped her. Hopefully it wouldn’t be much longer until she could help those delusional ghouls get on their way, and Manny would give her the information she needed. The sooner she left, the sooner she could wring Benny’s neck.

Jackal walked across the courtyard, ED-E on her heels, and noticed someone leaving their room right as she entered the motel’s office. She supposed it was about time for the snipers to trade shifts again. Pushing through the door, she saw an older woman reading through a magazine behind the front desk. She beamed at Jackal over her reading glasses — even with the pre-war tourist attraction, visitors were probably scarce. “Well, welcome to you! You look tired from the road. Why don’t you relax a spell, let this fine town take care of you?”

“That sounds real nice, ma’am,” she smiled wearily. At that point, Jackal would’ve taken another open grave if it meant she could get some rest. “How much for a room?”

“It’s a good flat rate of 100 caps, and you can stay as long as you like. Least ’til the busy season comes.” She laughed at her own little joke. “Sound good?”

Jackal silently fished the money out of her pocket and slid it across the counter in exchange for a key. “Your room will be the one upstairs, closest to the lobby side.” The woman pointed a thumb over her shoulder. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to make your stay better for you.”

Despite her cheery exterior, there was something about the woman that put Jackal on edge. Cliff’s positivity felt nothing but genuine, but hers felt like it was all an act, a way to mask something much darker.

Then again, it was easy to misread people when you were tired. “Thanks,” she replied, shrugging it off for the moment. The two exchanged goodbyes, and Jackal headed up the stairs towards her room, waving for ED-E to follow her. The key stuck in the lock when she tried to enter the door, and once she finally got it open she was met by the sight of well-worn shag carpeting and a nicely made queen bed. Everything smelled of old sheets and stale cigarette smoke.

Home sweet home, at least for a little while.

Shutting the door behind her, Jackal tossed her bag onto the bed and immediately headed to the bathroom. She turned the shower on, stripped off her clothes, and was pleasantly surprised to find that the water was actually _hot._ Out in the wastes, you were grateful to have running water at all — the fact that it wasn’t freezing would’ve been good enough. The relief she felt as she stepped into the shower was instantaneous.

She sat down in the tub, stretched her legs out, and began scrubbing off the dirt and blood she’d accumulated during the day. Jackal watched the water turn dark before it ran clear once again. After that, a numbness settled over her, and she just stared at her bare skin. It was more familiar to her now that it had been when she’d first woken up — made hers by new scars like the one on her thigh. A souvenir from Quarry Junction.

The first and only night she’d let herself cry.

Jackal looked away, towards the chipped tile wall. It was then that she felt the bandages on her head grow heavy, weighed down by water, and she realized that she hadn’t taken them off. She unwound them and tossed the wet rags aside, her fingers lightly brushing over the wound. It had stopped oozing blood a while ago, though it was still healing — better to keep it covered than risk reopening it.

Soon the only indicator that anything had ever happened to her would be a scar in the middle of her forehead. If only the damage dealt to the inside could be healed so simply.

She was lonely and achingly tired in a way that couldn’t be cured by one night of sleep. It had been two and a half weeks since she’d been shot in the head — two and a half weeks of trudging through miles of unforgiving desert, of risking her life for people who saw her as nothing more than a means to an end, of killing and fighting and bleeding. And what did she have to show for it?

A robot, some guns, and a journal full of nonsense. Jackal cared about ED-E more than anything, but she was dying for a connection with a living, breathing human — one that actually gave a shit about her, that cared what she had to say.

Turning her hand over, she realized that her fingers had started to prune from the amount of time she’d spent in the shower. She was wasting water.

_Wasting space too._

Jackal stood and shut it off, putting an end to that train of thought before it could gain traction. She kicked her dirty clothes away, dried off using the ratty motel towels, and got dressed — even though her room had a lock, she didn't like leaving herself vulnerable in any way. It was around this time that she usually wrote in her journal, but she was too exhausted to bother. Her entry could wait until morning.

She switched the lights off and flopped onto the bed, mumbling, “G’night ED-E,” into her pillow. The eyebot, which was resting on the dresser across the room, made a series of drowsy beeps before going silent. 

Sleep overtook her quickly, but it came with a price. The ghost of Nipton had crept into her nightmares.

Jackal passed through that dark street once again, fires burning bright against oppressive shadows. The heat was almost unbearable, but she continued to walk, one foot in front of the other — like a man possessed. Invisible eyes bored into her, paranoia shooting through her body. She resisted the urge to tear at her skin.

There was a crucifix in the middle of the road. Her heart was pounding so hard that she wondered if it would crawl out of her throat. When she finally managed to lift her eyes from the ground and look at the body strung up on the telephone pole, she wanted to scream — not out of fear, but out of _frustration_.

She didn’t recognize the person on the cross. Their visage was nondescript, unremarkable. Not even in her wildest dreams could she remember one face that might’ve cared about her. Jackal fell to her knees, furious hands outstretched, nails clawing at the splintered wood. As if her anger was good for anything other than keeping her warm — as if it would change anything at all.

Eventually, the fires caught up to her.

Jackal woke up coughing, trying to expel nonexistent smoke from her lungs. Rolling over to check the time on her Pip-Boy revealed that it was nearly three in the morning. She dragged a hand over her face — she couldn’t take Med-X like she usually would, given how little she had left. 

Instead, she rolled out of bed, put on the rest of her clothes, and left the motel room. A cool breeze made her tug on the lapels of her duster — it was a welcome change from the musty air inside. Jackal took a deep breath before making her way down the stairs.

She headed towards the dinosaur, not really thinking about who or what might’ve been up there, her mind still cloudy. The door to the shop was unlocked. Either Cliff didn’t think there was anything inside worth stealing, or he was too trusting of the citizens of Novac. Even though she didn’t fear being caught, as she wasn’t really doing anything wrong, the creaking of the door was enough to make her wince. The room was silent besides the faint buzzing of fluorescent lights.

Jackal started towards the stairs, but stopped in front of Paciencia’s case. She put her hand on the glass and sighed. “I’ll be back for you, hermosa,” she whispered, before continuing on her way up. The silhouette of a person — probably a man, if the broad shoulders were any indicator — came into view as she reached the top of the stairs. He apparently hadn’t noticed her.

She cleared her throat.

The man whipped around and leveled his hunting rifle with her, the close quarters causing the barrel to nearly touch her forehead. After a few beats, he let out an irritated, almost _disappointed_ sigh as he lowered his gun. “Goddamn it, don’t sneak up on me like that,” he snapped. He studied her for a moment, and she realized that this was Boone, the sniper who’d saved her ass earlier that morning. “Oh, it’s _you_. What do you want?”

“Just looking around.” She paused, speaking again when he didn’t respond. “You seem jumpy. Like you’re expecting someone — or something.”

He scowled, and she could tell that she’d touched a nerve. “Yeah, I guess maybe I am. But not like you.” Boone started to turn away from her, but something froze him in place. His voice lowered, and he spoke softly — as if he’d had some sort of realization. “Huh. Maybe it should’ve been you I was expecting all along.” Jackal felt like she was eavesdropping on a conversation not meant for her. It lasted only a moment before his brow furrowed again. He looked back at her. “Why are you here?” 

She wasn’t about to admit her real reason for wandering in the night. “I just wanted to see what was up here.”

“There’s nothing up here,” he replied flatly.

“There’s a sniper up here.” She hazarded a smile.

His frown deepened. “I think you’d better leave.”

Jackal sighed, her face falling. “Just trying to be friendly, man.”

“I don’t have friends here.”

 _I wonder why._ “Well, I’m not from here,” she shrugged.

Instead of shutting her down again, Boone tilted his head to the side as he mulled her words over. “No. No you’re not, are you? Maybe you shouldn’t go. Not just yet.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped short, his eyes narrowing. Jackal got the feeling that she was being examined. “Wait. Your eyes.”

It was the first time someone had pointed them out — she usually made a point to avoid talking to people at night, just to be safe. Even when she did, people either didn’t notice, didn’t care, or were too intimidated to ask. Trying to explain why she had gold eyes that glowed in the dark seemed like a waste of time when his guess was as good as hers. “Uh, yeah? What about them?”

Boone stared at her for a moment, then shook his head slightly, like he was just seeing things. Scanning the darkness every night for hours on end couldn’t have been easy on the mind. “Never mind. Look, I need someone I can trust. You’re a stranger. That’s a start.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You only trust strangers?” 

“I said it was a start,” he corrected, leaning his rifle against the wall and crossing his arms. “This town… no one looks me straight in the eye anymore.”

The sunglasses probably didn’t help, but Jackal knew that tone of voice — he wasn’t looking for a friend. He was looking for a favor. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to find something out for me. I don’t know if there’s anything to find, but I need someone to try.” There was a pause, during which Boone took a deep breath, like he was steeling himself for what he was about to say. It was hard to get a read on him when his eyes were covered — she couldn’t tell if they were guarded, sad, angry, or something else entirely. Jackal didn’t like being unable to predict what someone was going to say next. Instead, she tried to focus on his posture — the way his jaw was clenched, how tense he looked.

Nothing could’ve prepared her for what he said next. “My wife was taken from our home by Legion slavers one night while I was on watch,” he said, face grim. “They knew when to come and what route to take, and they only took Carla. Someone set it up. I don’t know who.”

If Jackal hadn’t been listening for it, she might’ve missed the slight waver in his voice when he said his wife’s name. You could fit a lot of hate in two syllables, but you could fit a lot of grief in them too. “You’re trying to track her down?” 

“My wife’s dead,” he replied harshly. “I want the son of a bitch who sold her.”

The night suddenly felt colder, like someone had poured a bucket of ice water over Jackal’s head. “Oh,” she mumbled, at a loss for words. “How do you know?”

“I know, alright? And that’s all you need to know.” He said it with a finality that could only come from witnessing something firsthand. Boone had seen it happen, and he was making it clear that any attempts to persuade him into anything other than justice would be shot down. He didn’t want hope or sympathy — just revenge.

And just like that, Jackal’s mind was made up. Revenge was something she knew better than anybody, and she was going to help this man get it. “Okay. What do I do if I find this person?”

“Bring him out in front of the nest here while I’m on duty. I work nights. Here.” Boone took his beret off, revealing a buzzcut typical of NCR soldiers, and handed it to her. She took it, her thumb brushing over the red felt. “Wear that. It’ll be our signal, so I know you’re standing with him. And I’ll take care of the rest,” he muttered. “I need to do this myself.”

That was something she could understand. “You want my hat too? As a sign of trust?” she offered with a weak smile, trying to ease some of the tension. When he didn’t react, she nodded and put the beret in her pocket. “Alright. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good. I’ll make it worth your while. And one more thing.” Boone picked up his rifle again and turned his back to her, facing the desert once again. “We shouldn’t speak again, not until it’s over. No one in town knows that I know what happened to my wife. Best they never know, or the Legion will be after me next.”

Jackal nodded again, this time to herself, as fatigue suddenly crashed down on her. “Understood.” She stopped just before she went down the stairs and looked behind her. “Boone?”

His head shifted, indicating that he was still listening.

“I'll be back tomorrow night. Count on it.” With that, she headed down the stairs, through the shop, and back to her room.

ED-E was still recharging on the dresser when she closed the door behind her. She took the beret out of her pocket and placed it on top of him for safekeeping. Then, Jackal kicked her boots off, tossed her hat aside, and crawled into bed. Sleep arrived even faster the second time around.

Her dreams were viewed through a rifle sight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait on this one, i got hit pretty bad with creative burnout but i promise i haven't abandonded this - updates just might take a little longer for me to get out. ("god?" line inspired by a post by letmebegaytodd on tumblr)
> 
> thanks for reading!


End file.
